


The Weight of Despair

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dark Crack, Inanimate Objects, M/M, Other, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: This must be a fate worse than death, if he was not dead already and this was Hell. Worse than the pain was the way he was adapting to it, the way he felt himself go slack in the statue's grip. It had ruined the fight in him, but there was no way to fight this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> For Esteliel: this was originally supposed to be a ToT treat, but I couldn't get it finished on time. I remember you talking a while ago about Valjean being trapped and fucked by the caryatid, and it seemed like a fitting scenario for a Halloween challenge.

He had acted on impulse, without conscious thought: the stone was crumbling, the caryatid was falling, and before he knew it, he was propping it up with one shoulder, wedged under the statue, heaving under its weight. 

There were clangs and clamours around him. Someone shouted, 'Look at the Jack!' - cries of excitement, interrupted by swift bludgeons. 'Order!' a guard barked. The rest of the convicts, four in number, fell silent, huddling together expectantly, their work paused. 

Jean Valjean gritted his teeth. He could already feel sweat starting to form on his brow. Even this late in the year, the heat was relentless, and they had been at work all day. The weight of the statue was an unexpected burden and he briefly asked himself why he should bear it. What if he let it go, let it tumble to the ground and take him with it? It would be a way out. 

But even like this, straining with his back and shoulder against the massive caryatid, he resented the thought. If he were to die, he would die on a field with a bullet in his back, the air of freedom in his lungs at last. Not like his, crushed by Toulon at last. 

One of the senior guards came striding. 'What's this then? Has no one sent for help yet?' He turned to a younger guard. 'You! Take these beasts and go find some equipment.' He then pointed at the other junior guard with his bludgeon. 'And you, Javert, can stay and keep an eye on the Jack.' A pause, a sneer. 'Not that he's in a position to run. But if anyone would, it's him.'

'Yes, sir,' the guard said stiffly, glaring at Valjean suspiciously, as if he expected him to throw away the caryatid and break free as soon as the others were gone. Valjean looked away from him, towards the sea. 

His shoulder was aching where the statue pressed against it. The afternoon heat, which he should have been used to by now, was rendering his mouth parched. For a moment he contemplated asking the guard for water, but immediately rejected the thought. Wasn't his position humiliating enough already? Should he have to humble himself further, beg this guard for a drink to quench his thirst, when by all rights any man with a stroke of compassion in him would have thought to offer him, Valjean, a drink already? But not this guard, not this Javert, who stood there rigid and scowling, watching him as if it was _his_ fault that the caryatid was threatening to fall down – as if he wasn't the one holding it up, with no choice but to hold his ground or be crushed.

Once again the unfairness of it all bore down on him. He could not help but let out a groan of agony, and as if in response, the statue moved ever so slightly, shifting against his back. He froze, aware that one wrong move on his part could send the thing crashing to the ground. 

The people of Toulon would mourn their fine statue, no doubt. No one would know or care that it had taken a convict with it. There were plenty more like him where he came from, after all. 

The statue seemed to shift again, slowly but surely, stone pressing against his shoulder despite his best effort – it was not enough, then, he was not strong enough to prop it up, after all. In a matter of seconds, the thing would collapse on top of him. He saw it clearly, and was powerless to stop it. In a moment shorter than the blink of an eye, he remembered his sister. 

For a long, agonising moment he waited, only to find that the statue was not falling. 

It took him another moment to realise that not only was it not falling, but that the massive arm that had been propped against its side had shifted down to curve around his chest. 

A laugh of despair escaped him. So he had gone mad at last! 

He shook his head, trying to move away from the stone, not even caring if it would fall, but the statue would not loosen its grip. Instead, a second arm gripped him, pulling him back towards the hard torso. 

To his horror, the second hand now fumbled at his trousers, tearing the worn fabric open. He writhed in the statue's grip, to no avail. Was this how he should die? Was he dead already, caught in a nightmare worse than anything Toulon had brought upon him so far?

He opened his eyes to find the guard, Javert, staring at him – he'd forgotten he was there. The guard's mouth was open, his eyes wide. 'What the devil's going on,' he was murmuring. 'Is this a trick? I swear, if you -'

'Help me,' Valjean groaned, now feeling something terribly hard and large sliding against his exposed cleft. 'For God's sake, help me.'

Javert's hand went to his bludgeon, then fell weakly down by his side, as if he realised that he was just as powerless as Valjean to stop the statue. He twitched, as if about to run for help, but stayed where he was, perhaps for fear of being thought mad, or simply because he did not dare leave his post. 'What is happening?'

Valjean could not bring himself to answer. The statue's member – how could he even think of such a thing without doubting his own reason? - was pressing into him, cold and hard, and it _hurt_ , more than his brand had hurt, more than flogging had hurt. The humiliation of having it happen under the guard's eyes hurt most of all. He hung his head, breathing through his nose as the statue slid in inch by inch.

Tears were welling up in his eyes as his body burned around the intrusion. He could not think, could not speak, only clench his teeth against the sobs as the statue filled him, large hands holding him fast, drawing him closer into their grotesque union. 

This must be a fate worse than death, if he was not dead already and this was Hell. Worse than the pain was the way he was adapting to it, the way he felt himself go slack in the statue's grip. It had ruined the fight in him, but there was no way to fight this, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. 

One of the statue's hands moved to his cock and tugged at it. The touch sent a jolt through him despite his will, adding to the pain; the statue fondled him, caressed him, until he was hardening in its grip. 

And then it thrust, painfully, harshly; he cried out, and the statue thrust again, and yet again, keeping its grip, pulling at his prick until he was panting with sick arousal and powerless to stop it. At some point he opened his eyes and found that Javert the guard was still there, right in front of him. A flush had spread on his face, and he was staring. Valjean swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. 

'Help me,' he croaked again, knowing it was to no avail. The pain was splitting him open with every thrust, he was trapped, and it was all he could do not to writhe in the statue's grasp for fear of making it all worse. 

Why was such a thing happening to him? Why was any of this happening to him?

There was no reason. Just as there was no God. 

The statue thrust into him one final time in a flash of blinding pain that might as well have come from his own orgasm, forced from him by a last tug of that giant fist. For a long moment nothing existed but the heave of his breath, the ache of his body, the sickness coiled in his throat. 

At length he opened his eyes. Javert had not moved. He was still right there, his hand on his bludgeon. His mouth was half-open but no words were formed. 

There was a creaking sound, the shifting of stone. Valjean winced as the statue slowly removed itself from him. He must be bleeding – surely he was bleeding – but he could not feel it, could not feel anything through the numbness that was spreading within him. The statue still held him in its grasp, as inexorable as ever, but the arms were now retreating and it was leaning on him the way it had before – leaving him to prop it up or crumble. 

Javert licked his lips. He tucked his bludgeon under his arms. 'Don't move, do you hear me?' 

Without a word more, he knelt down and pulled up Valjean's trousers, fastening them in the waist. He hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to see what damage the statue had done, but then straightened, scowling. 'At least now you're decent.'

Valjean said nothing. It was not a gesture of kindness. Guards were not kind, and that included this one, who had been watching him the whole time without lifting a finger to help. 

A great weariness filled him. He hated the statue, hated the inexplicable way it had violated him, hated the way he was still trapped under its weight. He hated the guard, he hated the sun, he hated his own aching body, and he hated himself for not collapsing under his burden and get it all over with. 

Gradually he became aware of the approaching sounds of clanking chains. The others were returning with the gear. Salvation, or a bleak imitation of it. The next moments passed in a blur of noise, orders, shouting, and then – finally – someone easing him away from the cursed stone. 

He collapsed down onto the ground, thinking he was going to faint. Whoever had guided him away from the statue was now handing him a cup of water. He gulped it down, gasping in between swallows. Only when he had emptied the cup did he realise who had handed it to him. It was the guard, Javert.

Javert bent down so that they were face to face. 'I am taking you to the hospital right away,' he said through gritted teeth. 'And no word of this to anyone. Understood?'

Valjean did understand. The pain was slowly returning to him, seeping through the numbness. If he were to collapse on his way back, surrounded by others, and be examined, everyone would know what had happened to him – except that no one would believe what had really happened. Perhaps Javert was afraid of what the other guards might think. 

He was pulled up by the arm, none too gently. With Javert behind him, he started the trudge towards the bagne. Every movement hurt, each step worse than the last. 

It was his own fault: he had brought it upon himself. He should have let the thing fall to begin with. 

The desire to laugh was strong and sudden. He swallowed it down. He would not let himself go mad, not if he could help it, but neither was he going to forget. There was no God, but Hell existed on Earth and that was more than enough.


End file.
